


in a handful of dust

by HaydiveRoyale



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Everyone is worse in this, Gen, Noirish, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaydiveRoyale/pseuds/HaydiveRoyale
Summary: When another body is discovered buried in cement, Morse finds himself once again to be the only thing that stands between the truth and those who are trying to bury it.He realizes that maybe he's playing a losing game, after all.
Comments: 63
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

" _Jonathan told me how there are things you have to do, even if they are dangerous.”_

_“Why is that?” I asked._

_“Because if you don’t you are not a human being, you’re nothing but a little louse.”_

From The Brothers Lionheart, Astrid Lindgren

The fog was just starting to lift from the damp, meagre patches of grass still left in Wood Farm when Morse got to the given address. He got out of the borrowed Jag and stood, looking around. Grey council houses, a three legged dog making its way through overgrown weeds and rubbish, and _there,_ a cordoned off area among the debris, a pair of police constables keeping the animals and the rabble out. Sometimes he forgot that sightseeing and wandering through breath-taking private gardens and Italianate architecture wasn't exactly part of the job, and some of his colleagues had to deal with this instead, day in, day out. Hell, some people had to _live_ in these places. It was enough to remind him he was lucky, really, despite everything.

He introduced himself, got the generals. Victim was male, mid thirties to fifties, no ID, only wore working clothes that were plastered with grey bits from being buried in cement. Debryn was still on his way, but even Morse could tell that the man had been there a while, and wasn't looking better for it. A construction crew had unearthed him while they were breaking up a section of the massive carpark in order to make room for a new skyscraper.

When Debryn did arrive, looking even more depressed by the view than Morse, he more or less confirmed his doubts. The man had been buried for the best part of five years, and the cause of death seemed to be a bullet to the back of the skull, sign of a professional job, not that Morse had any doubts. He had a feeling he knew perfectly well what kind of killing it was, and what kind of killing it was going to be written off as.

He said as much to Debryn, the unlikely but most trusted _confidant_ of Morse's anguish with the state of things. Debryn understood, and offered him a friendly hand on the shoulder and some Tennyson.

“ _Though much is taken, much abides; and though  
We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;  
One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”_

“Thank you, doctor”, Morse said; “but I'm not really feeling like Ulysses right now. More like Sisyphus, maybe”.

“One must imagine Sisyphus happy, as a French fellow once said.”

“ _The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart_ ”, Morse mused, mouth twisting downwards with thought. “It's not very true in my case".

“That's the beauty of philosophy. It sounds reasonable enough in theory, but in practice...”

Morse ducked his head, adjusting his shirt collar in a restless motion, and casting his eyes to the ground. “One should take comfort in the metaphysical implications of a situation when one can recognize them, I suppose.” He finally said, grimacing.

“Alas, that's the only transcendental comfort for us godless wretches. That, and beauty.”

“Indeed. Goodbye, Max."

“Morse.”

***

“You think this is connected to Binks?” Strange asked him when Morse told him about the new body.

“The victim was killed before the type of gun that shot Fancy and Binks was even in circulation, so we can't be sure, but I think we can agree that the MO is similar.”

“Have they found a name for the bloke?”

“Not yet, he had no identification on him and the fingerprints are gone. We'll have to wait for the dental records to come through.”

Strange nodded, taking a bite out of his sandwich. Morse looked at him frowning, disbelieving that the other man could still have an appetite after what they'd been discussing.

“Right, well, keep me posted, yeah?”

“Yeah”

The dental records allowed to give an identity to the man, one Jan Cieplinski. After a bit of digging through old records Morse had been able to form a clear enough image of the victim's curriculum vitae. Cieplinski was a Polish immigrant who, outside of his job in a garage, had been working part-time under Simon Caldwell, an infamous union leader become politician, as _what_ nobody had been ready to disclose. The case had lain dormant ever since his disappearance on the first of February 1964, since the victim had no relatives or friends to push for an arrest to be made.

The only reason Morse has discovered that the dead man had been working under Caldwell was because the disappearance had occurred just a couple days after he had been called in for a routine inquiry at Cowley, following the death of one John Hudson, and the note regarding the inquiry presented Cieplinski as an “employee of Caldwell’s” the note had been signed by none other than Fred Thursday. The records showed nothing of the interrogation outside of that it had indeed happened, as if someone had gone through the trouble of losing the relevant documents, or hadn't been bothered to write down the minutes at all. It looked as if it was going to be another Hollis Binks, and Morse still didn't know what exactly to make of Hollis Binks.

 _I need to have a word with Thursday_ , Morse thought.

Once upon a time, that would have been good news. When had that changed?

 _I need a drink_ , Morse thought.

***

“We didn't write down anything because at the time it didn't seem like he had anything useful to say. Plus it was off the record, he had been the one to come forward.” Thursday said, lighting his pipe. He hadn't seemed too happy to be asked about the old case. “Cieplinski had offered to give us information about the ins and outs of the union, and most of all about Caldwell”

“Why? What did Caldwell have to do with it?”

“Hudson was working with him as an associate”, answered Thursday “an line of enquiry suggested that Caldwell might have been the one to have had him killed.”

Morse raised his eyebrows as if to say “is that so”.

“But he was cleared. He didn't do it” Thursday said, anticipating the four that the two plus two of the facts added up to in Morse's mind.

“And you know that for a fact, do you?”

“There was no evidence against him, nothing to go on. It was just a hunch.”

“Cieplinski seemed to have something to say, though.”

“He had nothing. All he could tell us is that Hudson had shafted Caldwell in some deals with a few business owners, but apparently that was common knowledge. That, and some nonsense about secret registries or something. He was just muscle, not his bloody accountant. Nothing in it, I thought”.

“Maybe Caldwell didn't appreciate Cieplinski talking to you. Maybe he was afraid that he was going to testify against him.”

Thursday tiredly rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “It's possible".

“So let's go out there and question Caldwell"

Thursday stayed silent and still as a statue. “I don't know that that's a good idea, Morse.”

Morse raised his eyebrows, disbelieving, opening his mouth to speak.

“Caldwell is extremely well-protected. He's a politician, and a Mason. If we couldn't find evidence against him back then...”

“Well-protected?” Morse cried, disbelieving, “when has that stopped us before? At Blenheim Vale they were about to bury us, they almost did! What changed?”

“I changed!” Thursday roared. “I realized that it's no use getting in the way of people like that, they'll just build a holiday resort on your grave and go on as they've always done!”

Morse paled, feeling like he'd been struck. Thursday looked like was regretting his words, but he did nothing to take them back.

"It's not useless. I hope you still remember the man you were, because this sure isn't him.”

It was Thursday's turn to look like he'd been slapped. “Morse...” he tried

“If you won't do anything about it, I will. Tell them to build that resort far away from the city centre, it would ruin the skyline".

“Don't even...”

Morse got out and slammed the door behind himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Simon Caldwell lived in a stone mansion in the country, something that with all likelihood had once belonged to some duke or viscount who had lost their fortunes and were currently spinning in their graves at the kind of nouveaux riche scum that was inhabiting their forefather's grounds. _So it goes_ , thought Morse, stopping before a huge wooden portal and knocking three times with a ring that was hanging from a bronze lion's mouth.

An elderly butler opened a smaller door in the side of the big one, begrudgingly letting him through after Morse showed him his badge. They navigated through wide hallways and frescoed ballrooms, and Morse had the chance to be pained by the clash between tawdry, ostentatious objects and the refined architecture of the mansion. Persian rugs lying on marble floors, tiger's heads (Morse shuddered) hanging next to Victorian majolica fireplaces; it all came together to create a nightmarish vision of opulence and remarkably poor taste.

Morse was led to a study on the western wing and told to make himself comfortable and wait for Mr. Caldwell. The study had been spared by the tasteless decoration of the rest of the house, instead it had the look of a civil servant’s bureau; it sported sombre tones, dark mahogany surfaces, emerald green tapestry on which romantic era portraits hung.

He had been waiting for what felt like hours when a man opened the door, hanging his sunglasses on his shirt pocket and, upon seeing Morse, grinning widely, as if he'd seen an old friend. Caldwell was a mismatched fellow, quite tall, big head on narrow shoulders, large hips on thin legs. His face was pleasant enough, but he was balding, and to make up for this he had combed long, thin strands of dark hair over the top of his head that showed strips of pale skin large as the Atlantic.

“Mr Caldwell?” Morse asked standing up from the plush armchair to shake his hand, and getting more than he had bargained for when his own hand was crushed in an energetic up-and-down motion by the other man.

“In the flesh, son. And you are?” Caldwell said with a heavy cockney accent.

“Detective sergeant Morse, Thames Valley. I'm here following an enquiry regarding the death of a former employee of yours.”

Caldwell said nothing, looking at him with a shrewd, appraising gaze. “I’m not aware of you. I know almost all of the boys in Castle Gate, and you ain't one of ‘em. What did you say you name was?"

“I'll be asking the questions if you don't mind, sir.”

“Alright" Caldwell laughed, conciliating. “No need to get your handcuffs in a twist.”

Morse looked at him icily, unamused.

“Ask away then. I have actual business waiting.”

“When did you last see Jan Cieplinski?”

“This is about Cippy? Have they found him, then?”

“They have. Under three feet of concrete.”

Caldwell raised his eyebrows in apparent wonderment. “Oh? What was he doing there?”

Morse grinded his teeth. “I'll have to ask you to answer my question.”

“Which was? I've forgotten. Terrible memory I have, sergeant.”

“When did you last see Mr. Cieplinski” Morse repeated, wanting nothing more than to strangle the older man.

“Oh, Christ, I don't know. It was ages ago. As I said, terrible memory.”

“Then when do you last _remember_ seeing him?”

Caldwell paused, thinking. “Saw him skulking around that gangster Eddie Nero's snooker hall just a few weeks before he was killed. I think he was involved with him, somehow. I told him Nero was bad news, but I don't think he listened. You know Poles, good workers, sure, but stupid as mud.”

Morse stared. He didn't believe a word of it. He asked a few more questions, getting the same results; Caldwell was toying with him, trying to get him to snap. Morse didn't rise up to the bait.

“I’ll be back for further inquiries”, he said while walking out the door.

“Jolly good, sergeant. I'll be counting the seconds” Caldwell said before slamming the door behind him.

“Fucking hell” Morse heard Caldwell say faintly as he was walking down the corridor.

***

As soon as Morse was through the door that separated the office space from the waiting room, Box was on him like a tornado on a Kansas farmhouse.

“I hear you visited Simon Caldwell” he said, taking the chance to tower over Morse by crowding him against a wall.

“I did. Is there a problem?”

“You're the bloody problem” Ronnie said, leaning even closer to him. “Who cleared you to go and question him?”

Morse stayed silent, staring stonily up at Box.

“So if nobody cleared you, then maybe it wasn't your place to go on one of your girl scout house calls to a politician's house, no less” he spit out. “I know you're used to running free off whatever little evidence you think you have, but you don't answer to Thursday anymore, you hear? You answer to me. Get that through that thick head of yours once and for all.”

“ _Little_ _evidence_ " Morse echoed, disbelieving.

“Caldwell was suspected for a man's murder, then another man working for him, a few days after he spoke with the police about him, goes missing and turns up buried in a parking lot. You call that _little_ _evidence_?”

“I call that circumstantial, you grandstanding prick”

“Well, circumstantial is all we have to go on just now, or have you turned up any new leads while I was gone?”

The obvious answer was no, but of course Box wasn't going to say it. Instead he grabbed Morse's shirt, getting right in his face.

“From now on you won't do so much as scratch your bollocks without my say so, otherwise I swear to god Morse, you'll be out of here so fast you won't know what fucking hit you”

Morse refused to capitulate, staring up at Box with all the indignation he felt. Box scoffed and shoved him back, against the wall behind him. “This attitude of yours is going to cost you more than a promotion, one day.”

***

Morse worked nights, staying at the station long after everyone else had left, writing down lists of Cieplinski’s known associates, his last known whereabouts, the things that might have connected him to Binks, but he turned up nothing he didn't already know, no alternative to what he already suspected.

Why was he trying to find alternatives? He asked himself, throwing the folders on the other side of the table. It was all clear as day, almost ridiculously so. These people were so confident in their status to believe they were above the law, untouchable; they didn't even bother covering their tracks.

Hudson had shafted Caldwell, everyone knew. Cieplinski had spoken against him, it was on the records.

And yet Caldwell didn't even bother acting like he gave a damn, he treated the murder of his associates like it was a big joke. Caldwell had caused the death of two men and nobody was willing to do a thing about it. Morse buried his face in his hands, tired, exhausted, drained.

Morse's radio started acting up, static interrupting Mozart's sonata no. 12 in F major, which had been playing mellow and quiet in the background. He turned the control knob clockwise, annoyed, but the only frequency that seemed to work was one of those godforsaken around-the-clock jazz standards and old hits stations.

“ _Midnight, one more night without sleeping_

_Watching till the morning comes creeping_

_Green door, what's that secret you're keeping?”_

Sang some American one-hit wonder from the 50’s.

Morse sighed and turned the radio off, preparing himself for another useless trip to the archive. He recognized this as one of those nights when he couldn't have clocked off even if he had wanted to, the restless energy that fuelled him too much and too unrelenting, the need to get to the bottom of the matter too strong to let him do anything else.

At least being confined to the basement meant he could fall asleep on his desk without anyone finding him there in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided for the sake of my sanity to ignore the murder of the librarian, I'm sorry if you were attached to that storyline xx


	3. Chapter 3

Strange had always liked Morse. They got off to a rocky start, with Morse's intransigent and quite frankly off-putting imperiousness, granted, but Jim had been drawn to the chap from day one.

Strange didn't mind Morse's moods anymore, because he had learned to read him. He saw through the bitter and caustic comments and right to the well-intentioned honesty that lay beneath, through the austere, strict exterior and to the vulnerable, sensitive soul that he really was.

Jim's mother always said: to really judge one's character you should watch the way they behave with those weaker than them. With children and animals and tramps and the like.

And Morse was never as gentle and tender as he was when dealing with children, the downtrodden, the victims of this world. Strange knew it most likely was because he knew their pain, knew what it's like to have no one to look out for you, no one on your side.

Jim winced at this thought, because he hadn't always been on his side either. He let himself be lured in with promises and “that's what anyone would do in your place" and when push came to shove he hadn't lifted a finger, a mate had asked him for help and he had turned away.

That was maybe one of his greatest regrets, something that he hoped to make right by asking for Morse to be reassigned, by going against every man at the station and at the lodge in order to uncover who had really been responsible for Fancy.

Aside from having what was clearly a beautiful, just soul, Morse was also one of the cleverest people Strange knew, and that was saying something in a city like Oxford, where you couldn't throw a rock without hitting an academic. Jim often found himself in awe of the fellow's mind, his knowledge, his logical skills, the way he was always the first man on the scene, always one step ahead of everyone else, like some modern day Sherlock Holmes (Jim knew Morse would scoff if he ever voiced such a thought, but) and he couldn't understand how that didn't get him the recognition he so deserved. Of course he knew _how_ , he knew how men like their colleagues operated better than anyone, resentment and ridicule went hand in hand with them, and nobody wants to be made a fool of, as a rule. Still, Morse's attitude and brains got things done, saved lives, and how could that not count for anything? Shouldn't that be enough for them to give the man an iota of respect?

If not for his intelligence, surely they could have recognized that Morse was a tough bastard, physical courage of a bloody paratrooper, aim of a sniper, and it bordered on the inhuman how many hits the chap could take and still keep on going, like he was running on a battery.

But nothing seemed to do the trick, and it was all down to Morse's talent in getting the worst out of everyone at the station, his disregard for custom and unspoken rules. He never tried to downplay his emotions, his beliefs, he hated with the same intensity with which he loved, and instead of using his brain he only ever made decisions with his heart, because that's who he was, all heart and no common sense, Jim knew.

As soon as he was faced with one of those lodge types, their veiled threats and expensive vices, or men like Box, with towering bullyboy attitudes, all leather and sexism and football, or even boys like Fancy, with a strong façade of Jack the Lad mannerism (“cocky little prick”, Morse had called him before Fancy had started growing on him too); he drew in on himself, as if expecting a hit already, but looking prepared to give back as good as he got.

All in all, despite their differences, despite Morse's difficult, wrangling nature, despite Strange's own mistakes, they got along well enough, and Jim considered him his best friend and ally, which counted for something in such trying times.

Which made it all the more frustrating when he couldn't help Morse, defend him against Box's sort, back his theories up. He didn't have the power to do it, and even if he did he couldn't risk antagonizing the lodge too much; after all they needed an inside man in this operation. He had been reduced to a paper pusher, and if that gave him access to much-needed information, it also alienated him from real police work.

So all he could do was look on as Morse pushed for enquiries to be made, witnesses to be questioned, leads to be followed; and look on as all his efforts were thwarted again and again. After getting shut down again with the Cieplinski case it had seemed like he had finally snapped, and Jim had simply looked from the sides as Morse got in Box's face and Box had grabbed him, looking murderous and ready to act on it, and instead of backing off Morse had maintained his defiant stance, looking for all the world like a fox snarling at a bear. Jim had been prepared to intervene if things got out of hand like they had before, with Trewlove, but thankfully Box had simply shoved him back and let him off with a warning.

It hadn't been the end of it, of course, because with Morse it never is. He disappeared for hours on end, and they all knew where to, and all Box could do about it was give Thursday a hard time for not being able to keep him under control; enmity rising like gasoline-fuelled fire within their ranks.

Something’s got to give, Jim knew, and he was afraid of what. He felt it like a knot in his guts; a cold feeling. He saw it in the way the other officers looked at Morse, like sharks tasting blood, in the restlessness that was running across the Lodge as of late.

And now Strange had been summoned by the higher ups, something that hardly ever happened outside of formal meetings with the other masons or of very important matters indeed.

He adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, feeling it like a coiled snake around his throat. He still had a future in the Lodge if he played his cards right, could still maintain his position if all went well, but circumstance had it that he was more and more torn between Morse's world of high ideals and justice and the world of shadows and dubious morality that was the Lodge.

He knew whose side he was on this time, at least.

***

The Lodge's headquarters in Banbury Road were situated in a yellowish, modern building, ugly as all hell, Jim thought as he made his way through the front door, nodding at the doorman. He passed through a few conference rooms and offices before arriving in front of the Master's office, hesitating a beat before knocking.

“Enter” he heard faintly from behind the door.

A steward brushed past him on the way out, or maybe a warden, he could never tell them apart, there were so many men about the place.

“Ah, brother Strange. Please, take a seat.” the middle-aged man behind the desk told him as soon as the door was closed behind him.

“Good evening, Worshipful Master” Strange said sitting on the plush leather seat in front of him.

“I imagine you have no idea what this summon is about, so I'll tell you right away” Jim nodded, although he had a feeling he knew exactly what this was about.

“That friend of yours, Morse. He has been kicking up quite the ruckus as of late”

Jim didn't answer, simply looking ahead in the pseudo-militaristic fashion Masons of lower rank were supposed to maintain while speaking to their superiors.

“He has been bothering a few good men, I'm told. Threatening the good works and reputation of this Lodge.”

“It's police business” Jim replied. “Nothing to be done about it”

“Come, come, Strange” the other man said. “That's rubbish and we both know it. I'm told Morse is acting alone, defying orders, being a right pain in the arse. Is that the case?”

“I wouldn't know, Worshipful Master. I'm not let in on that kind of information anymore, I'm afraid.”

The older man looked at him appraisingly, then nodded.

“I'm only telling you this because I thought you'd have some leverage on the fellow, seen as you got him where he is.”

“I'm afraid that's not the case, sir. Morse is the proud sort, never would have accepted the job if he'd known I was behind it. He doesn't know it was me.”

“I see” the other man said, taken aback. “Well, be that as it may, it's still your reputation that’s at risk if some of his choices should reveal... unwise.”

“Yes, Worshipful Master.”

“Mr Caldwell has expressed his displeasure to me regarding certain allegations presented by your colleague, and so has Councillor Burkitt. This has to stop, Strange. If you don't keep him under control someone’s liable to get hurt.”

Jim felt a sudden flare of anger at the way those men treated the police, as if they were all pawns in their game, things they could control, with no actual power, tin soldiers with tin stars and toy guns.

“Yes, Worshipful Master.”

“I mean it. That little prick is a liability.”

“Yes, Worshipful Master.”

“Very good, brother Strange. Dismissed.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes Morse thought about what that woman had told him back in Bramford Mere.

She had laid down six cards in front of him, even as he openly mocked her, and uncovered one after the other. She didn't say anything until the end. Upon seeing the last one, she had looked suddenly grim, mouth turning downwards and wrinkles deepening.

“Death” she had simply said. “For you, I'm afraid".

Morse had been monetarily confused: weren't fortune tellers supposed to tell you that you were about to be successful, rich, happy, even though you were more likely to just pass away during the night without anyone noticing? Maybe she was doing it out of spite, or to scare him out of the investigation.

“We all die, so that's hardly news” he had said, opting for his earlier scepticism even as a strong feeling of unease had started making its way into his guts.

She had shaken her head gravely. “The cards say you'll die soon. Maybe within the year. Maybe longer. But soon.”

Morse wanted to scoff, wanted to keep seeing this as the madness it was, but something in her eyes, something in her tone... “What do you think I'm supposed to do, then?”

“The judgement card in your case symbolises your connection to higher ideals, your strife for justice. The death card appears to be strictly connected to that.”

Morse frowned, not liking the direction this was going.

“You'll have to choose between your ideals and your life.”

The soft late summer air had risen, whispering through the trees, and suddenly Morse had felt fear, irrational and primal, like those blasted equinox rituals up at the village, the masks, the dances. Maybe it was the setting’s fault, the odd, grotesque traditions he'd seen, but he shivered, hair at the back of his neck rising.

“What are the other cards?”

“More of the same. I haven't seen such a negative reading since...” here she stopped, as if reliving some personal pain.

“The first ones symbolize your character. The fool; innocence, you have a pure soul but you're too naive for your own good. The hermit; symbol of intelligence and introspection, but also of great loneliness and isolation. You're a misfit.”

Morse huffed, how _apropos._

“The knight of swords, reversed. I'm no headshrinker, but that usually means misguided energy. Upright it symbolises one-mindedness, a great drive, and upside down it means the same thing, but in a negative way. You’re obsessive, once you get your teeth into something you can't let it go. It also means you're scatterbrained, erratic. That sound about right?”

Morse stared, letting his stunned silence speak for him. How could she possibly know about these things, things he had never told anyone?

“Judgement I told you about, death, and the hanged man...” a craw cawed in the distance, then closer, a fluttering of wings. “The hanged man is significant. It means self-sacrifice, acceptance of doom. Martyrdom. Usually not in a literal way, but...” she made a brisk gesture with her hand, _seen the circumstances..._

“This is insanity", Morse had said, finally coming to his senses. How could he have wasted his time with such nonsense?

“Of course”, the woman had said. “I shouldn't have done this, not with you. What good did I think could have come of it, I wonder. Forget everything I said, it's nothing to worry about.”

And Morse had, for a while. But then he had remembered, during long alcohol-infused nights, when his thoughts were too loud to let him sleep. Tonight was no different: red-eyed and restless, Morse thought, words popping up and connecting hands like those red plastic monkey toys, polluting his mind, keeping him from focusing on useful things.

 _The fool, the hanged man, **death** , t_hought Morse. _Misfit, scatterbrained, self-sacrifice._ The more he thought about it the more ridiculous it sounded, and yet, and yet.

He sighed, pouring himself a generous measure of scotch. The record player skipped, scratched, scraped; _la Bohème_ faded. Something could be heard in the static, something that sounded like faraway words. Morse lifted the tonearm in fear of ruining the record further.

***

The next morning Morse went to pay a visit to the construction crew that had been working on Burkitt's miracle skyscraper. When he arrived, they were perched like gargoyles on a bench, smoking and looking at passer-byes with a certain degree of contempt.

One of them, of the more outgoing sort, walked up to him to hear what he had to say. Morse recognised him as George McGyffin, the foreman and owner of the firm. He deflected all of Morse's questions about Binks, showing all the while as little respect as possible, spouting veiled threats like one might do pleasantries.

Morse wasn't impressed. He had been dealing with his type of men all his life, ever since he was a boy that preferred reading to picking fights in the school yard, born in the kind of small village where people put the weak down like lame horses and resent any kind of success you have.

He had handled much worse, later on.

 _Small boys shouldn't get mixed up in men's work,_ the man called after him, and Morse didn't even bother turning around, didn't look at him while reversing in the driveway. His mind was already racing ahead, to the conclusions to be made, to what those threats had unveiled.

Morse went back into Castle Gate with the intention of relaying his suspicions to Strange, but he was nowhere to be found. He almost went to Thursday instead, but then he reminded himself of the way the other man had refused to act on the evidence concerning Caldwell, the times Morse had seen him drinking with Box and Jago, acting like their best mate, behaving like them. Even Debryn hadn't trusted Thursday enough to tell him about the gun, and Morse respected the doctor's opinions over his own. He looked at Thursday's office door, and thought sadly that there might as well have been a solid wall between them.

Instead he did what he should have done days ago, had he only made that connection. He called the owner of the shopping centre that the carpark in Wood Farm had belonged to. He confirmed Morse's suspicions: it had been McGyffin’s crew that had been hired for its construction, back in ’64. _Circumstantial,_ said Box in his head, and Morse would have laughed if it all hadn't been so tragic.

Morse was about to start looking into the construction crew's precedents, their contacts, when Alan Jago walked up to him, looking more engrossed by whatever was going through his head than Morse had ever seen him before.

“Alright?” he said, and before Morse could even think of answering “Look, I'm in a bit of a fix. They've called in a sudden death around Rose Hill, but I'm right in the middle of something. Would you cover for me?”

Morse thought about those files he needed to look into, sighed and then got up, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair.

“Good man, Morse. Don’t know what I would do without you”

Morse grunted out a sceptical sound; _yeah, right_.

***

The address Jago had given him was just outside of Rose Hill, beyond the eastern by-pass, and by the time Morse got there the sun was high in the sky, casting a golden light that conferred even to that uneventful place a kind of late-summer splendour.

Morse circled a bit with the car among semi-detached houses and tree-lined ditches before deciding that the place had to be hidden behind the brush and a row of poplar trees that blocked the view of everything past it. Morse got out of the car and started making his way through the brush and then through the waist-high grass that covered the field that lay beyond it, cursing Jago for sending him to do his job in such a remote location.

Finally he came in sight of the building, a decrepit white house with a wooden roof and green blinds, standing ominous and sharp even in the full daylight. It didn't look lived in, the wooden platform of the terrace was warped and cracked, some of the blinds were missing, revealing slanting roll-up shutters, and as he got closer Morse saw that weeds grew everywhere, climbing up the stone steps that led to the entrance. The entrance which no one was guarding, Morse noted with growing irritation.

The door was painted green, but the paint was chipped and faded, and it had been left slightly ajar, showing a sliver of darkness from within the house. The birds had stopped singing around him, and just then a cloud passed over the sun.

“ _Green door, what's that secret you're keeping_ " thought Morse, before pushing it open and stepping inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Inside it was dark, the light from the open door only revealing the hall, which showed no signs of life, only a banged-up chair and some yellowed wallpaper above a creaky wooden floor. As soon as he walked through the first door on his right he was submerged in darkness, and he walked groping blindly around him, banging against what felt like a table in the process before deciding to go back to his car and grab a torch.

Upon his return, it became clear that he'd been taken for a ride. No one had been there for a very long time, that much was evident. The vast amount of dust that had settled on the floor and furniture, previously undisturbed, flied and twirled in the beam of the torch as he shined it on square metre after square metre of empty, creaking wooden floors.

For good measure he checked every mould-stained room, feeling all the while in a bone-deep, childish kind of certainty that something was behind him. Getting out of the place felt like being alive again.

Jago had some explaining to do, Morse thought grimly, starting the Jag and getting back into the main road.

***

When he got back Jago was nowhere to be found, no surprises there. Morse sat back at his desk, massaging his temples against a rising headache. He should report the bastard, but to whom? Everyone at the station would have taken Jago's side. The real problem was why he had done such a thing. Simply to mess with him, or was there another, dodgier reason he didn't want Morse around?

Morse decided to let the incident lie for now in order to focus on more important matters; namely the construction crew’s records. He had barely gotten through the first man's file, which contained among other things two charges for drunken assault and one for petty theft, when he was interrupted by his phone ringing.

“Morse” he said, bracing himself for another loss of precious time.

“It's Debryn.” Said the voice on the phone briskly “I've found something, you’d better come down”

 _Maybe this at least will be worthwhile_ , Morse thought hanging up and making his way to the morgue.

“I've found this on Cieplinski”, Debryn said when Morse got there, handing Morse a small key.

“It was in a hidden pocket of his jacket, I heard it jangling around when I was in the middle of transferring it to evidence.”

Morse looked at the key: it hung from a chip with the number 166 printed on it in a red Egyptienne font.

“Any idea of what it might be?” Asked Debryn

Morse shook his head, rubbing his lower lip pensively.

“Thank you, doctor” he said finally, pocketing the key. “I'll look into it.” Debryn nodded, looking at Morse with an assessing gaze.

“Are you alright? You look like death” he said tilting his round, sympathetic face to one side.

Morse shrugged, casting his gaze down, aware of what he must look like. He hadn't slept properly in days, the only times he managed to nod off were the ones when he was too drunk to mind his thoughts, or too exhausted to keep his eyes open, but even then all he got were a few hours of uncomfortable tossing and turning that left him even more tired than he had been before falling asleep.

“This case is taking it out of me” he admitted in a rare show of honesty, but just now he didn't have the strength to lie through his teeth, not to one of the few people that he still considered as friends.

“Mind you don't push yourself too far” Debryn said kindly, peering up at him through his thick glasses. Morse nodded, giving him an attempt at a smile. “I'll try.”

***

The key was evidently one to a safety deposit box, Morse had seen many like it before. Morse decided to check at Cieplinski's bank, hoping that it was there and that the contents of the box hadn't been thrown out, after all these years.

Cieplinski had an account at the Halifax Bank in central Oxford, which had been promptly blocked as soon as the news of his confirmed death had been made public, as a clerk at the help desk of the bank told him. He recognized the key as one of the bank’s own, and showed Morse to the right box. Morse opened it, smelling old leather and dust, and found that inside it was a satchel, which at first glance seemed to only contain a notebook of sorts. Morse decided not to file what he had found under evidence, wary of the frequency with which objects seemed to disappear at the station, as of late.

As soon as he opened the notebook in the relatively private setting of his room in the section house, he recognized it as a business register, and a coded one at that. There were letters beside a long list of exorbitant numbers, that added up would surely amount to well over a billion pounds. Morse trembled, aware of what he was seeing, aware of how _big_ it was. The letters in the first column must be initials, Morse thought. The other letters were “L”s and “B”s. Lent/Borrowed.

Suddenly he remembered what Thursday had said about Cieplinski's testimony. He had spoken about a secret register. Cieplinski had stolen that register, wanting to show it to someone or to use it as leverage. Only he had been killed before he could do either. Morse wiped the sweat from his brow, wanting nothing more that to tell someone, but uncertain that it was the best thing to do. He had to find further evidence, he realized, he wouldn't get Caldwell for embezzling of funds instead of murder only to see him get out of jail after a few years, maybe less. He needed proof, and he knew what to do now.

Morse poured himself a glass of scotch, uncaring of his ever-encreasing headache. He put on a record to calm his beating heart, his racing thoughts. He sat down on his armchair, closing his eyes, feeling exhaustion overtake him once more, and after a few drinks and a few arias he felt the room slipping away, replaced by a muffled, far-away world of light and sound, a feeling like time had stopped and become thick like honey.

It was through this haze that he heard the record player skip, scratch, scrape, Bizet's Carmen fade.

Morse sat up abruptly, wanting to salvage the vinyl from the destructive fury of the record player, but then he stopped: inside the scratching, static-like sounds, he could hear something that was definitely not music.

A woman's voice, which very much sounded like Solange Michel, who had been singing just a few moments ago, was now speaking in monotone French, something that sounded right out of a weather forecast.

Morse frowned, turning the volume up and listening.

« _Trois fois: le silence va plus vite à reculons. »_ said the voice _._ Morse’s frown deepened as he tried to understand the words that were being spoken.

 _«_ _Les miroirs feraient bien de réfléchir un peu plus avant de renvoyer les images_ _. »_

Suddenly Morse recognized the bizzare phrases from a Jean Cocteau film he had once seen with Susan while he was up at Oxford, a rerun during one of the college’s projections _en plein air_. He remembered vaguely that Susan had hated it for some reason or other. With her things were always either _cool_ or _uncool,_ through the shared judgement that a few twenty-something posh twats she frequented passed on to her.

"Oh, Cézanne ? Pure and utter tosh, Dev. Now, Monet? _That'_ s art."

"God, you're not reading that godforsaken Housman book again, are you ? It's so _passè._ You should try Allen Ginsberg, he's _all the rage_ over in the States."

He grimaced at the memories and went to turn off the record player, when the voice spoke again :

 _« Attention, monsieur qui se met_ en devoir _de traverser. Trois fois: Qu'est-ce qu'il y a derrière la porte verte? »_

Morse shivered, for some unexplainable reason suddenly feeling like someone had been walking over his grave.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, Morse haphazardly hid the register away in a drawer and set off without so much as a cup of coffee, feeling like it all had been laid out before him and he was just going through the motions, feeling like it all was an inevitable as the sun rising or time passing, and he nothing more than a cart on a fixed path. He got on a cab, giving the driver the address of Caldwell's mansion.

The day was foggy and wet, sign of a quickly-approaching Autumn, and Morse had to skip over a few large puddles on his way to the estate's door. Craws were cawing, ominous in the Sturm und Drang scenario of the stone walls of the mansion slowly appearing from the fog, grey pointed towers and stained battlements making it look like something right out of a gothic novel.

A crow as big as a cat looked malvolently at him from where it stood beside a puddle, and Morse barely resisted giving it the V's. It took flight as Morse knocked loudly with the lion’s ring, the sound amplified impossibly by the bleak silence of the landscape. No one answered the door for a long time, and just as Morse was thinking about knocking again he heard a window open above him.

« Yes ? » said an irritated voice, and Morse looked up to see Simon Caldwell leaning out of a Doric columned balcony, dressed in a robe and looking like he was about to push one of the pig iron flower pots that rested on the parapet on Morse's head.

« Mr Caldwell ! I've come to talk. »

«A right early bird you are, mate. Well, what do you have to say, then ? You can say it from where you are, else our families might come to know about our star-crossed fucking love, eh ? »

« I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but it's quite urgent. »

« Jesus, no sense of humour, have you son ? Right, let me get ready. »

Morse stood in the clammy, cold air for a few minutes, before the door was opened and he was invited in.

« You have to excuse me, the butler has taken the weekend off, the lazy sod. You'll have to settle for me. »

Morse didn't try to appease him, looking straight ahead, not the shadow of a reaction crossing his face at anything the other man said. This quite evidently irked Caldwell, who seemed to shed his chummy mannerism the further into the house they got. 

« Right, what is this about ? » he said briskly after closing the office door behind them. Morse wasted no time with pleasantries, either. « It's about the Four Winds Aggregate. About the builders' union you used to lead. About Martyrs’ Field, and the body that was found there. About Cieplinski and Hudson. »

Caldwell looked at Morse with rising anger. « I don't know what you're talking about » he finally gritted out.

Morse looked at him immovably, ready to strike the final blow. « It's about the Union members' funds. A certain secret registry. That ring any bells ? » Caldwell paled, face gone blank as a slate.

« We have it. Cieplinski had it hidden away, but we found it. That why you had him killed, because he’d stolen it ? »

« Get out of my house » Caldwell said, shaken.

« It's not me you should be worried about. Once the press gets hold of it, you'll be finished. We’ll only be there to pick up the pieces. And what about the people in that register ? They won't be very happy to have their dirty laundry aired publicly, right ? They'll come after you with all they have. »

Caldwell was growing red, veins protruding from his neck. He took hold of Morse’s tie, pointed a finger between his eyes.

« You're dead. »

Morse looked at him unflinchingly, before shrugging the man's hands off and making for the door.

« You're dead, you hear ? You think you can fuck with me like that, you little shit ? You don't know who you're dealing with, you fucking… »

Morse slammed the door behind himself, cutting off the tirade, but still faintly hearing the shouting and the sound of something being smashed.

***

The cabby wasn't too happy about the situation, complaining frequently and eating tooty frooties by the dozen, explaining that he was chewing on those to help him cut on the smoking. Morse had gone slightly catatonic, listening distractedly as the man droned on about wives and health transmissions and lung cancer, watching tiredly the road in front of them. They had been there for over two hours, and Morse wasn't sure he was going to be able to pay the man when all was said and done. He had only hired him because Caldwell would be looking out for his police car, but now he was starting to regret this decision.

Then, suddenly, a black Ford Mustang darted in front of them, interrupting the dull landscape of fields and pebbled country roads like a cigarette burn on an old movie reel.

«Go, damn it ! » Morse shouted, making the driver drop the candy and start the car, cursing, getting them out of the clearing between trees they'd been wedged in and going after the much faster muscle car. He compensated the lack of horsepower of the car by stepping heavily on the accelerator, making Morse fear for the cab’s integrity.

They followed Caldwell's Ford through the countryside, then through Oxford's suburbs, in a route Morse had followed only the day before. He told the cabbie to hang behind, gave him the directions himself. When they arrived in sight of McGyffin’s construction site, Caldwell was already there. Morse watched as he stepped out of the car and looked around like he owned the place. Morse got out the camera he'd brought along, making sure it was in focus. Then McGyffin went up to Caldwell, and together they walked away from the builders, but remaining in Morse's line of sight.

Morse captured the exact moment the money was exchanged, and afterwards as McGyffin pocketed it.

***

Aware that a hit had most likely been placed on his head, Morse had no alternative but to leave it all in Jim's hands. The register, the photos, the evidence that placed McGyffin's crew on every scene of crime. He paid the driver and got out of the cab, ready to grab all he needed before going back to the station.

But as he reached his digs, he found he didn't feel any of the rush he should be feeling, in fact it was as if time had been crystallized, and he was just wandering through it. He had been feeling like that more and more, come to think of it, and he had to forcibly snap himself out of it in order to retrieve the register. He held it tight, head spinning, prepared to walk through the door.

But then he lost grip of reality again, and he heard static, and music, and someone whispered in his ear “ _don't look back_ ”, and then everything went dark.

He found himself in the middle of the room, the floorboards creating a glowing rosette around him, like the tiles had done when he'd been drugged by that crazed girl. He knew what happened next, the fire and ice, the screaming, the floor caving under his feet again and again until he was forced to crawl. The memories. He closed his eyes tightly, expecting the worst.

Nothing happened, and he opened his eyes again, realizing that the floorboards had stopped spinning, and in front of him he saw the notebook. He bent down, sat cross-legged in the middle of the rosette, the glowing star made of his dusty wooden floor. The register fell open, like in a fairy tale, and Morse drew closer, prepared to _see._

Numbers and letters glowed red, _look at me_ , they seemed to say. And Morse did, he looked, he _saw._

GMG, L, 560.000 11/06/66

CB, B, 500.000 23/08/66

GMG. George McGyffin. CB. Clive Burkitt. Reality was like a map Morse could read, and the register was the key.

McGyffin had been laundering his dirty money through Caldwell, through the Union's funds, and Caldwell had lent half a million pounds to Burkitt, in August of ’66, right before the constructions on Martyrs' Field had begun. Blood money had been used to build Cranmer House, it was only logical that blood had come from it. All the men that had been killed most likely had stumbled upon these numbers one way or the other, and they had been silenced, put down like dogs.

Once upon a time, Morse would have called Burkitt’s bank to confirm this, but he found he didn't need any further confirmation, now. Not when it was all right before him, the truth laid out before his very eyes, this thing that had been eluding him all these years.

Then, before he could see her, he felt her presence with him in the room, as the floorboards stopped glowing and the numbers turned back to black, leaving him kneeling on the floor, feeling empty and cold.

“Very good, Endeavour” A woman's voice said. “Are you ready to go now?”


	7. Chapter 7

Morse’s heart stopped, and he looked up wide-eyed and disoriented, feeling like he'd misplaced something crucially important. She was standing near the door, full of patience and benevolence, simply waiting.

Then it all came rushing in like a tidal wave, like an avalanche.

He remembered the abandoned house in Rose Hill, the green door, he remembered pushing it open and stepping inside, looking around in the dark hall and then the sudden, vicious blow, pain blooming black and blood-red in his eyes, he remembered strong hands holding him still, keeping him from struggling as he was stabbed again and again and again. He remembered lying on the floor, in his own blood, as black boots, _muddy_ black boots stepped heavily beside his head on their way out the door. He remembered slowly bleeding to death as the sun shifted its rays away from the entrance, away from him.

He was left reeling, trying to keep hold of his sanity as he felt it slipping away.

“Oh, poor dear. I knew this was going to happen.” She tutted, getting closer, holding out a hand to him. Morse took it, feeling at a loss at what else to possibly do. She helped him up, dusting him off with brisk but caring hands.

“What...” he tried, but his voice broke. He tried again, gathering his wits. “What's happening to me?” he asked, even if in his heart he knew perfectly well what had happened.

“You've died, Endeavour. You must remember by now.” Her eyes were kind but firm, just like her words, and suddenly Morse recognized her. “Mrs Stanhope?” he said, warily. She smiled, lifting one of her hands to cradle his cheek. “No, dear. I simply assumed her appearance. I thought it would make it easier for you, to have a reassuring figure beside you now.”

Mrs Stanhope had been one of the few adults who had been nice to him back in Lincolnshire. After his mother died, even if he didn't have any money, she would call him over with a conspiratorial smile and give him a bag of sweets to share with Joycie.

Then, when Morse was fifteen and he felt that everything around him was dark and hopeless, that he could never have a good future and so he might as well end his life as quickly and painlessly as possible, Mrs Stanhope had found him crying on the steps of an old bridge near his house while she was out having a walk.

She had wanted to know what the matter was, “girl problems?”

He had shaken his head, told her he didn’t have a girlfriend, and she had looked at him like that was the most surprising thing she'd heard in her life. That made him smile faintly, and she had taken it as her cue to get him up and lead him away, wrapping a fond hand around his middle, complaining about how thin he was the whole way.

She had fed him shepherd’s pie and listened to his problems, never treating them like they didn't matter, like Gwen and his father did, treating him with so much care Morse didn't know what to do with it.

“You're a special boy, Endeavour Morse”, he remembered her saying. “You're going to be just fine, you're going to be better than any of us could imagine. Don't you give up on your dreams, you hear?”

And he hadn't given up, he had struggled, all his life he had struggled and struggled for his dreams, his ideals, but it seemed that all they had led him to was an early grave.

As he looked up he could see that the woman was still smiling, and suddenly he felt overwhelmed by the cruelty of it, the kindest person he had known as a child being used as a messenger for his death. He wished it had been Thursday instead, all booming voice and coarse hands, he would have said something along the lines of _that's the way o’ the world, Morse. You knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, happens to the best of us._

He would have accepted It, then, part of the job, innit?

But for those words to be spoken by the only person who had seen any light in him when everything had seemed so dark, who had looked into his eyes and told him that life held great things for him, it felt like a bad joke, fate's way of telling him that failure was the only possible conclusion to his existence.

Then he remembered what he had been doing a moment ago, the sudden revelation be had experienced. “I need to give this to Strange” he said urgently, pointing at the discarded notebook.

Mrs Stanhope’s face turned sad, as she dropped her hand from his face. “I'm afraid that's not possible. The dead can't interfere with the living.”

Morse's heart sunk, his last shred of hope evaporating like ice. “Then what was the point off all this? Why dangle justice and closure in front of my face only to take it all away at the last second? What have I done to deserve that?”

“You asked for it, it was given. I couldn't deny your dying wish to solve this last case, not after you had been cheated out of life so cruelly, so senselessly.”

“I never asked for this.”

“You did. As you drew your last breath what you thought about was how you never got to solve this case. Last thoughts carry weight in the afterlife.”

Morse struggled with himself, appealed to reason, but he found that reason couldn't help him anymore. “Was any of it real?”

Mrs Stanhope shook her head. “It imitated reality, sure, but it was all created by me.”

“What about the register, then? Haven't they found it? Can't you tell me this one thing?”

Her mouth turned further downwards, in an expression of bitterness he had never seen Mrs Stanhope wear.

“The register was a fabrication, too. In reality it was destroyed years ago. They found the keys in the man's jacket after murdering him.”

Dread filled him like freezing water, quickly followed by complete and utter defeat, and Morse felt all the fight leaving him completely. They were going to get way with it, Caldwell, McGyffin, Burkitt, the lot, and Morse could do nothing about it. All that remained of his fire was a dull desperation, a childish resentment. He was reminded of the ending lines of Kafka's Trial _._ _Like a dog! He said, as if the shame of it should outlive him._

“Life is Kafkaesque.” Mrs Stanhope said, the ghost of a smile on her lips, having read his mind. Morse smiled back, mirthlessly. That stone was bound to roll back downhill eventually, and one must imagine Sisyphus happy. But he felt that something had been broken inside him, something that all those years of loneliness and sorrow hadn't managed to even bend.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“You can do whatever you want. The world will shape itself around you, much like it has done ever since you walked through that door. Only now you won't have me to anchor you to reality, and you won't see things the way they are anymore _.”_

Morse shivered, faced with the perspective of the afterlife as endless chaos. A pretty far cry from Dante's paradise, he thought hysterically. “I don't want that.”

“It's really not that bad. In fact, it might even be pleasant, in the right conditions.”

“Please, please, just let me fade away.” He finally broke down, tears threatening to start streaming down his cheeks. “I never wanted any kind of life after death, I only ever wanted to be able to rest, after.”

“I'm sorry, it's just the way things are.” Her eyes were full of pity, and he deflated, again aware of that thing that had broken inside him, which was now rattling around his empty chest.

She wrapped an arm around his waist, like the real Mrs Stanhope had once done, and led him away from the room, from the casefiles and the empty bottles of scotch and the piles of books and records, and he found himself letting go, unable to resist.


	8. Epilogue

Endeavour couldn't say he was happy, but he wasn't unhappy either. People came to him, spirits dressed in masks, talking animals. Mostly children, lost children, children needing a path to follow or some advice or some matches. Maybe it was because he was a child himself, mostly, since being an adult felt too much like hard work.

As a child he had been miserable, but not here: here he was at one with the world, not apart from it, and there was no death, so there were no hunting trips where he was forced to kill innocent creatures, there was no fear, no hatred. The days when he was a child were green, endless afternoons, walks in the woods, playing with the animals he crossed paths with and going on trips with the other children, finding new places every time, and if it all resembled one of those silly Famous Five books he had read when he was a toddler he found it didn't bother him much.

Sometimes he was old and white instead, and in those days he would sit on a rocking chair, reading or listening to his records, or he would lay in bed listening to the sound of the gentle waves that came lapping the craggy shores of his lighthouse.

He didn't always live in a lighthouse, sometimes he lived in a bed and breakfast by the sea, or in a castle in the Scottish highlands, or in Oxford, or in a cottage in the country. He did travel, but he never trusted himself enough to sleep outside of Britain.

Some things he recognized from his memories, from books he had read, from stories he's been told. Some of it he couldn't place, and he guessed those things weren't his, but they felt familiar all the same.  
There were lots of ghosts around, ghosts of all intensities and ages, some of them not his. He would get other people's ghosts wandering into his garden, and into his kitchen, lost, fading. He would offer them tea and read some poetry to them, and they would listen carefully, and then, when the sun started to set, they would be on their way.

His own ghosts were fresh like spring days, because he had been young while living and he was still bright like a new penny here.  
Often he would feel them approaching, carrying gifts. They would try to get him to swim with them in the Isis, and he would hang back with his book, and watch.  
“Come, Pagan, don't be a bore!” they would say, and he would join them, in time.

Sometimes real people, friends, came to visit, but they didn't stay long, and he couldn't imagine them being there with him for longer than a tea break. He liked those visits, but they left him feeling melancholy, after, when he was gathering used tea bags and jam-sticky dishes, so he tried to avoid them when he could.  
Sometimes, when he could see the girl with the dark hair and the piercing blue eyes, or the friendly man who called him “matey" approaching, he would slip out through the back door, to walk along the meadows and lay down among the flowers. They never followed him there, and he was free to soak up the sun and the sweet smell in solitude; but even if he didn't have any tea bags or dishes to tidy up when he got back, he still felt the same kind of dull sadness.

All things made sense to him, and this is why he couldn't feel much, one way or the other. He understood the quick mirrored reflections through keyholes and the games of human chess they sometimes organized by the sea, he understood the lost children that asked him for bits of wool or to point them towards the post office and the subterranean sunlight of the greenhouses he went to read in. All things dark and unexplainable had been left behind, to a world that he never thought much about anymore.

He had no more mysteries to solve, but he still knew how to be himself, still knew how to smile during those quiet afternoons in the sun, how to feel content while petting a dog, or when he remembered a quote from a poem he liked, and besides, he had his music.

Endeavour knew it was important, with every note that played, to remember that was something that the darkness couldn't take from him.


End file.
